Transgender

Forum











ME AND BOBBI©
by George Wilkerson


It's Always Something



Ed. Note: Bobbi/George is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outing herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. Earlier articles in the series can be found at The Central Texas Transgender Society's Web Site
You can also write to the author

This process is never easy for her. I try to stay calm, but I get frustrated a lot quicker. First comes shaving, which you would think we'd be used to by now. But of course, this isn't like shaving to go to work, this...

"Ssssshhh...you're making me nervous."

"I'm sorry...I'm just remembering that time you nicked yourself on the lip. It bled forever."

Bobbi looks at herself in the mirror, studying closely for signs of a shadow or a stray hair.

"Just be quiet"

Bobbi
Bobbi
And of course I try to stay out of it. When she starts the process it's really me who's starting, especially the shaving. At some point she emerges, but I'm never quite sure when that will happen. It's usually not during the next phase though, pinning up the hair and slipping on the wig cap.

"Hand me the tape," she says.

But I'm still the one who's doing it, unrolling the strips and tacking them alongside the mirror, then using them one by one to accomplish the eyebrow lift.

"Good," she says from her place in the background. "That's good. Now...the eyelashes."

"Oh Yes..they're always such fun," I whisper.

She doesn't respond. Very carefully, we lay down a bead of glue along each lash and then, peering into the magnifying mirror, place the first one along the eyelid. Excellent. "Well done," she says, patting me on the back of my mind. "Now the other one."

This time it's not so easy. I press the lash into place and pull my finger back to find the lash sitting on my fingertip and my eye glued shut. "Cute," she says.

I clean the eye and try again. And I'm successful this time. But now the outside corner of the other lash has popped up. I think to myself that we need a sound effect here. (A loud "BOING!" would be appropriate.) The pleasures of becoming a girl, I think. "If you think THIS is fun," Bobbi says, "try the surgery."

I shake my head. "No thank you, dear."

With eyelashes repaired it's time for the foundation. It smoothes on easily, creating a pale featureless look, strange and with the hair tucked under the wig cap, almost alien-like.

We apply the foundation and when we're done, as we're getting ready to do the eyebrows...Pop! Pop! We can feel the tape loosening and then letting go. "Damn," she mutters.

So now I have to wash off the foundation and tear off new tape and make sure the area is dry and retape it. It's excruciantingly slow.

"Is this really worth all the trouble?" I ask.

"You tell me," she says.

"Hmmmph." I think she has no comment, but then she says. "It's my life."

That's true, I think to myself, and so to her. So we continue. Now we're up to the eyebrows. We've been having them waxed lately, a little more each time, so no one notices they're receding. All we have to do is define them. A bit of the brush here and a bit there. Then step back and look.

"The arch on the left one is lower than the right," she observes.

"No problem," I say, brushing the top of the left arch.

We step back. "Hmmmm," we say, in unison. (I realize that we're getting closer together.) "Maybe a little more on the right," she says.

A little more on the right. But no...no IT'S too high. So to the left...

George
"Damn," I say, grabbing the wash cloth and scrubbing at both eyebrows. "Where's the foundation?"

She hands it to me and a few minutes later we've repaired the damage, though neither of us is satisfied with it. "The bangs will cover it anyway," she says, rushing me to the magnifying mirror.

The eyeliner; the true test. Very carefully, begining on the bottom, at the outside, slowly drawing the line, keeping it thin, dipping the brush and drawing further, dipping, drawing. Good.

The other eye now. If only I could wear my glasses when I do this, I think.

"I don't wear glasses," she says.

I nod. "I know," I reply. "But I do."

"I don't need them," she says, smugly.

I don't answer. I'm concentrating on the upper lids, congratulating myself at how skillful I've become. But of course, too soon. Pulling the brush back and catching the upper inside of the lid, I leave a large black gob which makes me look like I've just been poked in the eye with a pool cue.

"Washcloth," I say, gritting my teeth.

Once again, the ritual repeats itself. Clean off the error, repair the damage, redo the job. Dipping and drawing. And finally, it's finished.

"My hair," she says, anxiously. "Get my hair."

She's demanding now. She knows her time is near and I must withdraw. "Not so much as a thank you?" I ask.

"My...hair," she repeats. So I grab the wig and brush it a few times, lean forward, and pull it back over my head. A few pins achor it securely. Then we look in the mirror.

"Show time," Bobbi says. But I'm not listening. I'm in that place where I always go. There, but not there. And Bobbi is out and about once more.

Suddenly I feel a pinch. We turn and look into the full length mirror. "Is it worth it?" she asks.

I don't answer.

"You can be damned sure it is," she answers. "You can be damned sure."

TGF's Home Page